play me something
by BadOldWestern
Summary: Anna makes a very big point of replacing the guitar along with Kristoff's sled. A very big point. She drops a lot of hints before he gets why.


Anna makes a very big point of replacing the guitar along with Kristoff's sled. A very big point.

She drops a lot of hints before he gets why.

She asks if it's working well. If he's played it. If it's the right one. She even had it tuned for him.

She asks about how he likes the guitar more than when she asks about the sled. Anna sees the sled in use. She's ridden in the sled. He had the bad judgment to let her drive the sled a few times.

She has never heard him play the guitar she got him. Which explains the constant mentioning of it.

It takes him a while to figure this out.

Well, he doesn't exactly figure it out. The answer is literally handed to him. They're lying around on his bed, and it's at the point in the evening where they have the first round of desire sated and out of their system, so it's a period of lazy touches and snuggling. She stretches out on the foot of the bed, laughing about court gossip and he lounges against his pillows, grabbing her feet and watching her carefully. She likes how he watches her. It's attentive and gave this gentle push against her skin- like a hand on her shoulder. She could always feel it. She loved it.

He, however, is uneasy when she pays close attention. Her eyes on him always make him fidget and grow red under the collar. Anna was vibrant but also easily distracted, her passion venting into so many facets he didn't have to worry too much about his shyness.

Except at this time. This lazy, full time with weighted moments and an entire night stretching on ahead of them.

Anna finishes her story about the night's banquet with a rushed laugh, which fades when she catches him staring. She quiets with a small smile, turning her eyes to his broad chest and strong arms. He grows uneasy under her observance. He scratches the back of his head, sheepishly returning her gaze.

She smiles, leaning over the edge of the bed to reach for his guitar and hands it to him. He cradles it in his lap awkwardly, considering her expression. He wasn't one for an audience.

"Play me something," she says softly, her eyes shining excitedly.

"Um… I'm not that good, it's just kind of something I toy around with."

She leans over the guitar in his lap, getting close to his face. "I know you didn't mean for me to hear you at Oaken's…in the shed… but I did and it was really…good for me."

"Good for you?"

"Yeah, it really did it for me." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the hair that was once white. She always touches it like it's still visibly different.

"That did it for you huh? A duet with Sven? Singing about my smell?"

She rolls her eyes. "Maybe I just liked your voice when you weren't yelling at me."

"I wasn't yelling at you, I was helping you. Loudly."

"I feel like you're stalling," she accuses, crossing her arms, and he takes a deep breath.

"Maybe I am."

"Please, play me something."

She leans back and props herself on her elbows, her face glowing with excitement.

Kristoff suppresses a joke about wanting to bring Sven in to accompany him. He peeks up at her nervously before he starts to play. She watches his fingers casually pluck the strings, his bangs falling over his eyes, blush clouding around his nose.

He couldn't duet with Sven like he always did. It was usually a way of him and his best friend to unwind after a cold, exhausting day, a little music to lower blood pressure.

This was different, alone in their warm room, where instead of singing to his friend, he was singing to her. And it was going to be really, really easy for him to let something slip out that he wasn't ready to say. Maybe he was. If he thought it so damn much. Should he say it? Was it time yet?

Her hand settles on his calf, squeezing gently, the touch so knowing and understanding and comfortable that he couldn't help but sing for her, softly, smiling at her. A barrier slips away, and she sighs, watching him relax into his own music, singing about the warmth of the room and the smell of the fire in the hearth and her hand on his leg. She smiles, so thoroughly pleased with him that her feet tap together excitedly.

He sings a few less-improvised songs, ones he's heard around a few campfires as a kid or ones the trolls taught him. Some funny, some sad, and as the light of the room dims and the fire burns low, his gentle voice croons songs of something so tickling and unyielding, a teasing emotion flickering around them; obvious but not realized.

He keeps his eyes on her, as she does to him.

Briefly, it occurs to him that he's singing a love song to her. Slowly, she realizes she's hearing one.

He sets the instrument aside and leans forward to cradle her face with his free hand.

"I think I'm in love with you."

"I think I'm in love with you back," she admits, the aching time spent waiting for him to say it suddenly possessing a new sheen of purpose. He guides her on top of him, and when his hands settle on her hips she leans down to kiss him. They kiss for a long time, because now they really have each other and it's not like they have anywhere else to be anytime soon. Their sated bodies are now aiming for indulgence as they rub together the second time of the night, her thighs clenching around his hips as he drags her back and forth against the length of his cock. His shaft rubbing against her clit before he even enters her already has her babbling nonsense in his ear, gripping his hair with one hand, and stabbing her fingers into the flesh of his shoulder with the other.

He grins, sweaty sheen covering his skin, as his breath quickens over her writhing over him.

He slides inside her at a point where she's so wet it's hard to tell exactly when he enters her, but as he's fully sheathed she lets out a moan when her head falls back.

"I love you," he gives her a mouthy kiss, not much tongue but all lips pulling at each other and sucking and shared breath.

She nods frantically as his hands manipulate the movement of her hips over his own. She likes fucking him this way because she feels both powerful yet subdued, he likes the control but also comfort that he isn't crushing her with his weight.

His hands rise to her breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs. She clutches at his forearms, feeling lost against his thrusts, lost yet guided home.

She nearly loses her mind when his fingers eagerly find her clit, toying with it. He wants her coming undone around him, and she obliges, tossing her head back once more to whimper and whine. He works her over during her peak, thrusting faster to stretch out her pleasure, and his movements nearly make him miss it. Barely cohesive, she keeps whispering a pleasured stream of consciousness, "love you Kristoff, I'm in love with you, I love you, Kristoff…"

"I love you Anna. I'm in love with you Anna," he returns, unable to hold back and groaning throatily as she nips at his jaw, kissing his face and letting her hands stroke over his body to urge him on. He cums inside her, gripping her tightly as she collapses over his body, sighing sweetly against his skin.

"That was the best," she admits softly.

"The guitar really did it for you, huh?"

"Oh yes," she says shamelessly, nuzzling his face.

"I'll keep that in mind." He sighs, body going limp with exhaustion.

She smiles to herself, and just before he drifts off, he feels the vibration of her humming against his chest. Humming the love song he sang. He chuckles, drawing lazy designs with his fingers on her lower back, each of them gently lulling the other to sleep.

Weeks later, he rises early to prepare for another departure. He leans over her sleeping body to whisper her ear. "Hey, better wake up if you want to walk the grounds with me before I head out."

"Unnnnh," she groans, rolling onto her other side. He paces the room, stuffing extra socks into his bag and looking for the new muffler she made him. Her knitting was atrocious but he still wore it proudly. And the tangles in the yarn made it much bulkier and warmer.

The sheets twist around her legs and her snoring continues immediately.

"Anna, this is a two week trip, you said you wanted to do this. Wake up."

"Forget the walk. Play me something on the guitar," she grumbles from her tangled position on the bed.

He glances up at her, smiling to himself at the unladylike posture she's using, and the absolute mess of hair snarled around her cheeks.

He settles on the bed, propping the guitar up on his lap. He has a feeling this is going to be a recurring request in their room.


End file.
